Drifting Satellite
by the-throwaway-account
Summary: How does Remus cope with his lycanthropy in an AU in which he has an absent mother, distant father, and no close friends? 'The Room of Requirement gives me a dark place to regain control.'
1. Logic

_My body's not belonged to me since I was four years old, so I may as well share it, now that I'm of age._

This is the summary of my logic, always winding restless in my mind. Hyper-sensitive of myself and my physical urges, I think all my choices through. I give in only because I allow myself the right. The things I do are deliberate; they have to be.

I've analyzed my motives carefully. I was nearly a Ravenclaw, after all, like my father. Merlin, if that unassuming man knew what I did, well, it's hard to imagine what he'd do— what new level of shame would darken his eyes.

This thought does not frighten me. On a basic level I have become immune to shame. It's a necessary skill when your own blood looks at you with fear distorting their love, pity and guilt clouding the tenuous joy at pointless little successes, like top marks in school. We both know these small successes are fleeting. I will never be able to hold down a job of any decent caliber. I will live hand to mouth. I will struggle.

I smile wryly to myself as I dry off after a bath in the prefect's wash room, imagining my father's shock, his anger. I decide it'd be a welcome change to the man's calm facade. I take a moment to marvel at a fresh scar across my ribs. My right hand traces the mark, and then my left hand wraps around my right wrist— left rough, discolored, and skeletal as the wolf's earliest and most favorite chew toy. It's the only part of my body I'm not comfortable with.

I pull on the tight, black partial sleeve I use to cover the offending appendage and glance in the mirror again. Muscle is more visible now, even in calm movements. I am getting stronger, and so is the wolf. The beast has somehow become more creative as well, or perhaps just angrier. How the skin between my shoulder blades was torn open two weeks and two days prior, I can't be sure. There must have been some gruesome acrobatics involved.

As I pull on my shirt, I wonder how young I will die. The irony is not lost on me that the older I get, the lower my estimation becomes. My brow furrows slightly in thought. I'd wager about 36 years now, 38 tops. As a sixth year, I've nearly reached middle age.

I'm not blind to the fact that I've romanticized my sickness— the tortured soul only meant for this earth for a season, the literal lone wolf. It's an odd defense mechanism, imbuing poetry into my disease **.**

I knew at a fragile age that loneliness would always haunt me. Before I got the chance to fancy anyone, I learned no one could ever truly know me. It fucks with your expectations about attachment- skews your perspective. I have a secret I'll take to my grave,my only companion. It makes me special, and I've grown accustomed to my fate.

Feeling so distant, so emotionally bankrupt, I decided some time ago that I might as well counter balance the mental barricade with loose lips and eager hips.

* * *

Sometimes when a boy is inside of me, I wonder what it'd be like to wake up next to someone else's warmth, share a sleepy smile.

Sometimes when I'm inside a boy, I think, how would it be to know a full name, a favorite color, a birthday?

When I'm inside a girl I sometimes want to say I love her, and I have to bite my lip to stop myself. I wouldn't mean it, of course. I'm just curious how the words would feel in my mouth, how out of place. They may as well be another language.

I'm glad my scars frighten people. I tell them I was attacked by a dog when I was very small, and if someone's bold enough or cares enough to ask, I say the fresher marks are because I cut myself for fun. When I'm in a certain mood, or near a certain moon, I ask if they want to try. No one has said yes.

I give myself a final once-over in the mirror, arranging my long, wavy hair to shadow the multiple marks on my neck, the scar from the monster that made me, and various smaller bruises and bites.

I think it may have been the lie about cutting myself that first compelled my more vigorous partners to scratch, bite, and hit me. Or maybe I just exude an air that tells people I don't matter.

Whatever the initial reason, I didn't stop them. Indeed, it wasn't long before I started begging for it, demanding it. My body's not my own anyway, and it feels good for a little harm to come from an outside source. So, I let them take their anger out on me.

The Room of Requirement gives me a dark place to regain control.

* * *

Then there's a boy in the restricted section of the library.

The mere fact that he is at ease among the secluded stacks tells me a lot. He's clearly been given permission to be here. Which means the professors, and Dumbledore himself, trust him. Therefore, it stands to reason that he doesn't get into much trouble, which either means he's good, or good at not getting caught.

He is also focused on his education more than most, as intensive extra credit assignments are the primary stipulation to being allowed to delve into these shelves.

A single row of tomes separates us, and I see his green and silver tie gleam in the torchlight. I find myself immediately more interested in him, maybe even attracted— if not for any other reason than I've had so few snakes in my bed. The vast majority are much too proud to turn to a Gryffindor for any sort of companionship, let alone intimate pleasure. The rarity of it gives the illusion that it's special— some sort of challenge, or trophy.

I swiftly exit the library, deeply annoyed with the sudden urgency I feel to put as much space between us as possible.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** I truly appreciate you taking the time to read, and of course reviews are welcomed! I don't foresee this being a long story. Looking at the bits and pieces I have, I'd guess maybe two more chapters about this length, but it is difficult to say.

All the best,  
tta


	2. Parallel

I am not one who naturally rises with the sun, so I only see that particular Snake a couple times during the first two months of school. He seems to be in the library whenever nightmares wake me, and I escape the suffocating air of my assigned dorm at an uncommonly early hour.

Halloween falls on a Sunday, and on the night of the feast I eat hurriedly and venture afterwards into the library proper. Almost suspiciously soon after my arrival, the Slytherin sits at my table, across from me, but one space over.

"It seems you've escaped the garish festivities as well," he says.

"Seems so," I reply, not looking up from my sketchbook.

He smells of potions and it's interfering with my scent-reading of him. I wonder if this is despite of, or because of the waxing moon.

After only about twenty minutes of shared silence, he closes his book and crosses his arms.

"I know who you are, and what you do," he says.

"Word gets around, as do I."

I take the time to deepen the shading around my thestral's eye before closing my book to look at the Slytherin openly for the first time.

My first thought is of a vampire— he has narrow shoulders and pale skin, ebony locks falling to his chin. His posture is slouching yet defensive. Somehow, he seems to look down on me while even just sitting I have some visible height on him.

My second thought is to wonder how his skin feels, and the third… is that I'd like him to bite me, to feed.

"You're interesting," the Snake says, in an eerie echo of my own thoughts.

I can't clearly read his tone, or even his face, and I have trouble deciding in that moment if this is more intriguing, or annoying. Despite his mouth smirking at me with soft-looking lips, the look in his black beetle eyes is closed off, calculating. It's a familiar gaze that acts as both a mirror and a magnet.

"Does that mean you're interested?" I return, voice cool.

There's a pause in which I slowly cross my arms, and in perfect reversal the Slytherin moves his to unwrap from against his body.

"No," he says, looking down and tugging at his too-short robe sleeves. "But you should know I see you, and my name is Severus Snape."

He stands up, retrieves his book, and exits quickly. I sense tension as he leaves, and I feel some satisfaction that, for whatever reason, I seem to have caused this Snape person to retreat in much the same manner as I had weeks prior.

* * *

On Saturday, November 20 I feel almost normal, as the moon is new.

I retrieve a book from the restricted section and return to my nearby place of study where books are stacked, a ball point pen lies adjacent to a quill, and a spiral notebook keeps parchment from rolling up on itself.

I notice immediately something's amiss. The book I had open is now closed, with a bit of paper acting as a bookmark. It's a page of college-ruled notebook paper, cut in half. I see a brief message in small handwriting.

 _I'm interested._

 _-SS_

The words vanish a moment after I read them. After a brief pause I instinctually pick up my pen and write _: Room of Requirement- half an hour after dinner._ The words fade just a soon as they're written.

* * *

Our first kiss is not gentle; it's tense, almost angry. The smell of potions ingredients is, of course, amplified at proximity. It exudes from his robes and from his hair. I think of small dead animals, bleeding flowers. The scent makes him taste like medicine, but that doesn't stop me from enjoying it.

We take things slowly and by mid-December our meetings become regular. They actually occur more often than with any other exploits, and this makes me uneasy at first, but then I chalk it up to equal parts boredom and coincidence.

The calendar bleeds into January, and I am grateful for having the weekend to recuperate from the moon that cruelly conquered me on Thursday, the sixth.

On our first meeting of the year of our lord 1977, I am struck by the Slytherin's robes. They are simple, but new. The sleeves are not as exaggerated as older styles, they are the proper length, and the black is so deep it seems to eat the light. As he moves to put down his bag and sit on the plush sofa, my eyes linger, appreciating how the fit hugs his slight frame.

"New robes, for my birthday," he says simply, and I respond reflexively.

"When was it," I say, inwardly cringing at my traitorous curiosity.

"Yesterday, the ninth."

"Hmm, a Capricorn… symbol of the stubborn goat," I say, sidling up to the couch. I smile as Snape's brow furrows in annoyance.

"Suits you well, from what I see- ambitious, regimented, unemotional."

He silences me with a kiss, less bruising than the usual.

"You think you know me," he says lowly, more serious than I'd prefer.

Snape is an odd creature with a stony face. All his emotions come through in his voice.

"I know you well enough to fuck," I say, to negate the out-of-place solemnity.

A pause lingers, but not for long.

"You don't actually believe that rubbish," he says. His mouth sucks my bottom lip; his hand runs slowly up and down my thigh, venturing higher with each movement

It surprises me that he doesn't put me down. I handed that one to him, really. _And what do you need to know to fuck someone, that they have a pulse? Pretty low bar, wouldn't you say?_

"Of course it's not true, but it's still interesting." I reply, shrugging.

Snape's hand finally reaches my erection, and as he rubs, an unspoken agreement passes between our eyes. We both start taking our clothes off. My movements become quick and brisk, while the Snake moves slowly and carefully. I push him firmly against the couch and take him, and there are no words during our connection.


	3. Ruling Body

Not long after climax, after getting cleaned up, Snape disentangles himself and puts his pants back on. I have an inkling he's not quite comfortable with his body, or perhaps with me. I could hardly blame him if that's the case. Comfort is not the goal, anyway.

I wordlessly Accio my underwear and put them on, but nothing else, before lounging back on the couch. The Snake moves to sit on the end seat, nudging my feet so that I bend my knees, allowing him room.

I tug idly on the tight black sleeve still adorning my mangled wrist. The silence is not awkward, but not overly amiable.

"What's your symbol, then," the Snake says, and at first I don't realize he's talking about the zodiac. I figure it out quickly though, and afterwards perform the rare misstep of hesitating with my answer. I wonder if I should lie, and I'm not sure why I don't.

"The fish," I say.

The Slytherin looks about to laugh and I feel compelled to explain, which in and of itself is out of character.

"There's two, actually, tied together, but swimming in opposing directions."

Snape sobers a bit, and something almost predatory sparks behind his eyes.

He shifts his position, coaxing my legs off the couch. To keep comfortable, I halfway sit up and shift the angle of my body. Snape leans slowly over me, pushing my sweaty hair away from my face.

"That certainly sounds… complicated." His voice stretches between syllables like a cat, slow and sinewy, and I'm forced to admit to myself, not for the first time, that this boy's voice is like warm silk on skin.

"You've no idea," I smile.

"Oh, I think I do," he murmurs, and in that moment a chill runs through my blood. What reason could he have to suddenly sound so smug?

I scoff, not giving an inch.

"No, you don't. I'm ruled by Neptune, after all, the planet of illusion," I say.

I'm acutely aware that Snape has turned his attention to my left side, now. He nips at my jaw and his fingers press lightly against the wolf's scar. It feels too deliberate, and I sense the energy in the room shift. I move to rise, to push him off me, but then I feel the unmistakable jab of a wand digging into my side.

"Oh, Lupin, Lupin," says the Slytherin.

His tone is a strange elixir— there's the familiar condescension, but also a threat, and most confusing of all, an undertone of affection.

His long fingers wrap around my neck, but he doesn't tighten his grip. He speaks softly into my ear.

"Are you certain you're not ruled by the moon?"

* * *

His words echo in my mind, but I remain impassive.

"Quite certain," I say, and my voice is steady even as my mind is racing.

Snape clicks his tongue and shakes his head.

"Your heart is giving you away; it beats in my hand. I know you're lying, Remus."

I have trouble recalling the last time someone beside my father said my given name in such a patient tone. I refuse to avoid Snape's eyes and I'm confused when I find no disgust or fear in their obsidian depths.

Strangely, the realization that I'm caught is sluggish to fully register, but the moment it does, I feel an overwhelming exhaustion wash over me. I suddenly feel I can't go on. I don't know how I made it so far, but I'm certain now I lack the strength to keep hiding. I feel I can't maintain the grueling cycle of lying, breaking, bleeding, howling.

The idea of someone else knowing my secret makes me hollow with terrified relief. For a moment, I seem to leave my body, and when I come back, I feel faint. My hand comes up to cover Snape's on my neck, to remind myself he's not choking me.

"What do you want?" I say, deadpan, accepting.

I know he has me right where he's wanted me. He may as well have a scythe angled around the back of my neck, absolutely aching to behead me.

He could have asked for money, academic or personal favors. He could have asked for blood or bone, whether for potions or not, and I would have complied.

"What do you want?" I say again, impatient.

I feel his hand shift under mine, not to harm, but simply to turn and grasp my own with a gentleness almost as frightening as the earlier revelation.

"You," he says. "All to myself. Stop sleeping around; and call me Severus."

I realize in that moment— if love and hate are two sides of the same coin, then love and fear are kissing cousins.

"Of course, Severus," I say. I feel the wand's pressure disappear.

I try to ignore how well his given name suits him, how I enjoy the sound, the taste. I tell myself I'm not glad about what has just happened, that I am simply relieved that his requests are so simple.

He asks for my birthday and I tell him the truth, again, March tenth.

He nods and squeezes my hand before letting go. He rises off me, finishes dressing, and leaves. I collapse on the bed, curling up and almost laughing at the ridiculous scenario— how abruptly backwards my life has become if after a meeting in this room I feel so cold and hungry. Instead of blissfully blank, I feel thoughtful in a way that physically hurts.

I made a grievous error, misjudging him. I didn't expect one with such walls to be so adept at infiltrating those of others.

 _Fucking obnoxious Slytherins._ I think.

I lack the mental energy necessary to analyze what just transpired, let alone consider what, if anything, could be done in response. Dazedly, I pull the cool sheets over my still over-warm body, and promptly stumble into a fitful sleep.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** So, I underestimated the length of this story, which I suppose is good news if you're enjoying it. I'm hesitant to give another estimate, but if I had to, I'd say at least two more chapters. Please remember, also, that your enjoyment is always more important, but comments are still deeply appreciated and can be quite motivating when it comes to updating more quickly.

All the best to you and yours,  
tta


	4. Guard

I fail to think of a way around Snape's demands, and succumb to my fate with practiced ease.

We create a schedule to simplify matters. After asking my input, we decide on regular meetings every Wednesday and Saturday, with additional days being rare, but possible according to our discretion. I am surprised he said I could initiate extra meetings. Of course, I never do.

Our charmed note paper is now utilized for check-ins, good mornings, and goodnights— not solely for terse rendezvous information. Still, he's careful not to be overbearing, and I can't help but appreciate this.

We don't have sex every time we meet— sometimes we play chess, and sometimes we simply lay together in relative silence. His warm body bends to conform to mine; his hand absently caresses my arm. This kind of visit disconcerts me most. I'm surprised he seems to doze at times. Naturally, I never allow myself this level of vulnerability.

Without the constant stress of making myself available to other random suitors, I find myself more relaxed than I had been in a long time. The structure of our schedule helps ground me, and I find my resolve to remain indifferent to the Slytherin slowly being worn away like a boulder in a persistent river.

* * *

February's moon is set to rise on Friday, the fourth, and the week prior Snape tells me our regular meetings will be put off. He tells me instead to come to him the Monday after the moon.

On my way to meet him, I realize one of my past partners is trailing after me. He's a Gryffindor seventh year, tall and possessing a much bulkier build than me.

It's still early in the moon's waning, and I lack the energy to deal with this, but I have no choice. When I turn to face him, he marches up to me, invading my personal space. He jerks his head back and to the side, signaling me to join him in an empty classroom.

"I already told you I don't do that anymore," I say, refusing to step back. "Not with you, not with anyone."

His face contorts in anger my rejection.

"C'mon Lupin, make this easy for both of us and get your tight little arse into that room, _now_."

He moves to grab my arm and I jerk away from him.

"I'm done with that."

He glares down at me, seemingly disbelieving of my insolence.

* * *

I'm itching for my wand, but I don't dare draw it. As a Dark creature, I've never shaken the paranoia that the smallest sign of aggression or upsetting the status quo would cause my immediate expulsion.

I'm grateful that he isn't reaching for his wand, either. Perhaps he's muggle-born. He may see his wand as more of a helpful tool than a weapon, especially when strong emotions cloud judgement. Or maybe he's figured out that there are magical detection lines weaving all throughout the castle to alert faculty when harmful spells are cast.

Disgust is clear in his eyes as he hisses, "Useless."

He halfway turns away before snapping back around and punching me square in the jaw. I taste blood and fight to remain standing, cursing the lingering effects of the moon for slowing my reflexes. He yanks me to the side by my collar and jams his elbow into my chest, ramming me against the wall. My head snaps back and collides with the stone with a sickening thud.

He strikes me in the side of my gut, which sends me down on one knee, clutching my midsection and struggling for breath. With a dismissive kick he topples me unto my side.

"Pathetic piece of shit," he says, and leaves.

* * *

After a short while, I gingerly rise. I'm close to the Room of Requirement, and all I can think of is the plush bed awaiting me within. I pause before entering the room to heal and clean up my lip, hoping to avoid questioning from Snape.

Upon entrance, I immediately feel that it's too bright and the large candle chandelier dims to accommodate me. I see Snape stand, but do not greet him. I nearly trip on my way to the bed. I straighten up quickly, still trying to behave normally, but my cover's blown as I gasp when the movement pulls on my ribs painfully. I double over, eyes screwed shut. I feel a hand on my shoulder and brush it off.

"What happened to you?"

I shake my head. "I'm just tired, jus' tired," I say, annoyed at my mumbled speech. I want to put the blame on the moon, but I can't focus enough to find the words.

I know he doesn't believe me, but thankfully he backs off as I close the distance to the bed and crawl awkwardly unto it with heavy limbs. I move to lay on my back, but the position hurts my head and stretches my sore side too much. I reflexively turn over and curl up, blindly grabbing a spare pillow and hugging it close.

A sudden realization cuts through my foggy mind with startling clarity— I want Snape near me, I want him to hold me. I'm too tired to feel averse to the desire, and yet my pride won't allow me to mention it. My head is pounding and as I start to slip into unconsciousness, I am overcome with a feeling of loneliness.

"You're bleeding," he says. It's difficult to read his tone because his voice sounds far away.

"What? No," I say lowly, keeping still, keeping my eyes closed.

"This isn't from the moon. Someone hurt you," he says, and this time I can decipher grim anger laced with sadness.

"Please," I say, unable to suppress the soft groan that escapes me. "Don't ask."

Silence follows, and then the bed slowly depresses. A warm presence nestles against back; a hand gently smooths my hair.

Distantly, I remember my mother comforting me when I was ill. I miss her, and she hates me. I scared her away with my curse. Guilt and regret clench around my heart.

An arm comes to rest across my waist, and tears gather behind my eyelids in response to equal parts grief and gratitude.


	5. Disclosure

When I come to, the ache in my side and pain in my head have diminished significantly. I understand that Snape sleeps behind me, judging by his slow, deep breathing. I sit up slowly and look behind me, noticing a small blood stain on the pillow. As I reach up to press along the back of my head, I feel no swelling or pain. Only a bit of hair stuck together remains as evidence of injury. The realization that the Slytherin has healed me creates a surprisingly pleasant constriction in my chest.

Snape lies on his back, and the change in his appearance fascinates me. Of course, everyone looks different when they're asleep, but I'd never really seen him like this. At rest, he looks his age. I realize, then, how his scowling adds years to his countenance. The wrinkle between his brows has vanished, and his lips part in a way that conveys both innocence and sensuality.

I suddenly want to kiss him, to surprise him upon waking. I'd like to blame this desire on what was most likely a mild concussion earlier, but I know that in truth I cannot. I shift position to face him properly, but as I start to lean over, I sense a minuscule shift in his expression. I would have thought I'd imagined it, except a moment later his body tenses, his brow furrows.

I pull away and sit back, legs folded under me. He turns his head to one side, and my hands itch to loosen his fist gripping the sheet. I hesitate to wake him. I don't want to frighten him, but as a soft, distressed sound reaches my ears, I know I cannot resist. A nightmare is clearly brewing, and I'd rather he know he's not alone sooner rather than later.

I rest my hand on his shoulder. He turns his head to the side where I touch him, but he doesn't wake. His breathing becomes slightly labored. I squeeze his shoulder.

"Severus."

I receive no answer except his quickening breath.

I shake his shoulder more firmly, and like an undead creature waking, he sits bolt upright with a gasp. I embrace him reflexively.

"It's okay," I say. "It was a dream."

Wordlessly, his arms wrap around me. He rests his chin on my shoulder, and my hand cradles the base of his skull. The sweat in his hair speaks to his distress, and I feel glad to have woken him.

Silence clothes us as we lie down once more. Severus lays his head on my chest, the position feeling more natural than times passed. Suddenly his comparative slimness and modest height strikes me anew, and a deep protectiveness ripples through my blood.

"You can talk about it, or not. Whatever you want," I say.

A thoughtful pause permeates the space between us, and then Severus hesitantly speaks.

"My mum is a witch; father's a muggle. He was never very affectionate toward me, but he abused my mum. For a long time, I never witnessed it, but I could tell. ... My early accidental magic was subtle, and only my mum noticed at first. She told me not to tell my father, and I realized then, maybe he was resentful of magic.

When I was eight, my dad went after my mum while I was home. I'd never felt so angry, and I doubt I ever will again. I got between them, and when he moved to strike me, my fear and rage created a shield which stopped his fist from reaching us. ... My nightmares consist of that night, and the beating that followed. My mom was blocked from reaching the phone to call the police, and afterward he threatened us so vehemently that she couldn't bring herself to reach out to anyone about it.

The next time this happened, my magic burned his hand, which finally scared him off. Thank Merlin he and my mum divorced soon after."

He sighed heavily.

"I thought I might die. It hurt to breathe— probably broken ribs. I was terrified my lung was going to be punctured. It wasn't long before the room was dim and spinning, but the hate in my father's face was so clear. I'll never forget it."

At this point my jaw begins to hurt from gritting my teeth. I fail to prevent my mind from imagining the scene, replaying it.

Snape lifts his head and turns to look at me. The trust in his eyes burns. I suddenly feel guilty, dirty. This openness doesn't make sense to me. I don't deserve it.

"I'm sorry that happened. I'm glad he's gone," I say.

Severus rests his head once more on my chest, and it rises and falls as I sigh deeply.

"Will you tell me how you got hurt?" The Slytherin says.

I should have known better than to hope the issue would be dropped.

"It doesn't matter," I answer lowly. "I'm used to a lot worse."

"It matters to me," he returns immediately, and loathe as I am to admit, his matter-of-fact tone shatters my resolve.

"I refused sex with someone," I say without emotion. "He got angry. Normally I wouldn't be such an easy target, but the moon hinders me still."

"Who was it?" Severus asks, voice dark and slow like coagulating blood.

"That, I won't tell you. He's not worth the time or energy."

"You can't expect me to just—"

"He's not worth it," I cut him off. "Drop it."

Snape moves to rise, gearing up for an argument, but I pull him back down firmly.

"Drop it. Trust me," I say.

After a tense moment, I feel his body relax against me—a silent concession.

Another silence lingers for a while, until he says, "Are you really used to them, your transformations?"

Caught off guard, my mirthless laugh stains the air.

"Fuck no," I say sharply, and suddenly feel much too exposed.

I sit up, pushing Severus away, though not roughly.

"I have to go," I say, hurrying off the bed.

Snape moves to sit cross-legged on the bed. As I scoop my bag off the floor, he says simply,

"I'll see you later."

I nod, already half way through the door.

* * *

Later on, as I settle into my night routine, I realize I hadn't checked the note paper in a while. I feel both drawn and averse to seeing if it says anything, but in the end I give in to curiosity.

The paper reads 'Goodnight, Remus,' and after the words vanish, I stare at the paper for a while before putting it away in my bedside drawer.

I lie down, and after some difficulty manage to fall asleep despite the nagging desire to write back.


	6. Warmth

I remain cold with Snape for the next few weeks, or perhaps more appropriately stated, I simply behave more like myself. I speak less, smile less. I can imagine the Slytherin's point of view, the frustration of our 'relationship' taking one step forward and two steps back, but I don't give a fuck. I feel a quiet anger towards him almost constantly, like water on a low boil.

Even as this new distance provides some comfort, I realize the foolishness of my actions. It goes without saying that one could never become accustomed to their entire body breaking apart every month, so why did it aggravate me so much to say it aloud?

 _Why'd he have to ask such a stupid question anyway,_ I think. _What's the point of trying to get me to admit my hardships?_

The full comes for me on March 5, which is a Saturday, so naturally we call off our scheduled rendezvous. Nothing is said about any changes to our Wednesday meeting, so I don't bring it up— relieved to be free from the snake's presence for an entire week.

* * *

Against my will, I wake early on Saturday with a pounding headache at the base of my skull. I move slowly to change out of my sweat-soaked clothes, and my hands shake as I throw muggle pain medication into the back of my throat.

In my weakened state, I allow myself the indulgence of checking the notepaper for a message from Snape. I find none, and become angry with myself at my surprise and disappointment. Expecting things from people is sure to only cause pain in the end.

As I drift off, though, I reason that his silence may be my own fault, for giving him the cold shoulder.

The full moon night is horrid, but nothing out of the ordinary. I have no memory of the entirety of Sunday.

I come to consciousness early Monday morning to the sound of Madam Pomfrey murmuring over me, performing spells that monitor vital signs.

"Your heart rate has leveled out nicely," she says. "Your fever is lingering longer than I'd like, but I suspect it will break soon, most likely later tonight."

I nod and take my potions mechanically before falling back to sleep.

* * *

Pomfrey wakes me around mid-day to give me a meal replacement potion. She watches me drink it to be sure it stays down. A wave of nausea does come over me at the last swallow, but it's nothing I can't suppress.

As I hand her the goblet, I notice that her soft smile is a bit wider than normal.

"A Mr. Severus Snape has come to visit you," she says. "If you're feeling up to it?"

"Sure, just give me a few minutes," I say.

Although I silently admonish myself for the immediate consent, my response does not surprise me. It stands to reason that I'd be thrown off kilter at the novelty of someone visiting me— someone giving a damn.

The moment the matron leaves I gingerly sit myself more upright in the bed and run my hands over my mussed hair. I need to appear as alert and normal as possible, but even as I hear Snape's footfalls nearing the curtain that encircles me, I already long to recline, to pull the blankets over my chilled body.

Upon entering, the Slytherin closes the curtain and turns to face it, weaving the shape of a pretzel into the air— a silencing spell. He wears a sage green jumper that brightens his complexion, and his hair is tied back. His unobstructed face reminds me of how he looks with his hair splayed across a pillow.

"Hello, Remus," he says. He does move to kiss or hug me, and I glad he doesn't waste his breath asking how I'm feeling. Instead he places a dark blue package unto my lap, its golden bow gleaming in the sun from the window.

"I know it's not your birthday yet, but I felt you could use it sooner rather than later," he says.

Wordlessly I remove the lid from the gift to reveal a plush burgundy robe. I lift the garment gently from the box, and a card falls unto my lap. The note explains that the robe is designed to hold a common warming spell for two hours instead of the usual 20 minutes or so.

"Thank you," I say, unable to think anything else.

"Heat helps after the moon, right?" He says lowly. "For your muscles, and joints?"

"Yeah, they kind of lock up."

A pause sits between us and suddenly I'm desperate to say more, more than I've told anyone.

"I'm so tired of feeling like an old man, an invalid. Since I was four fucking years old."

Snape tenses at hearing the age I was bitten. He sits on the bed and places his hand on mine. I grasp onto it, my other hand gripping the robe.

"My eyesight is messed up, afterwards. I can't walk; I can't eat real food. We have to ration the potions because I keep getting resistant to them—"

My breath catches in my throat, causing a coughing fit.

"See?" I say harshly, clearing my throat. "I can't even breathe properly. My lungs are all filled with fluid."

Snape squeezes my hand, raising it to meet his lips. Then I see his eyes widen subtly.

"Hold on, you're bleeding," he says. "I'll get Pomfrey."

I look down at the bandage running across my chest, still heaving from my coughs, and see various points of red starting to peek through.

"No, it's nothing," I say.

"Doesn't look like nothing."

"Really, it's normal. Don't call her. I can't stand it."

Snape frowns and narrows his eyes.

"Please, Severus," I say, voice smaller than normal as I reel from my earlier outburst. I've shown my weakness more than ever, but this time I can't run away.

Snape sighs.

"Then at least lie back and calm down. You're shaking," he says.

He rises and moves to the head of the bed to adjust my pillows. I flinch as he briskly pulls the blankets off me, but in a smooth motion he speaks a warming spell onto the robe and lays it across my body.

"It's a good thing about the color, eh?" He says with a grin.

I laugh, surprising us both. The resulting jolt of pain causes my shoulders to tense and curl forward. A sudden but deep exhaustion rises within me and I sink deeply into the pillows. I close my eyes and wait for my breathing to slow. I'm halfway asleep when I feel Snape's hand on my cheek.

"Don't, you don't have to—" I say, turning away from the touch. His hand moves to rest on my shoulder.

"Lupin, shut up," he says. "Look at me."

My heavy eyes meet his gaze, and the sunlight reveals to me that his eyes are a rich brown color.

"You don't need to push yourself or pretend with me. I already know you're strong. You're the strongest person I know," he says, voice roughened with frustration and something deeper— something with a name that scares me.

My eyes fall closed and I can't tell if I imagine or genuinely feel his lips against mine before I fall gently away from consciousness.


	7. Transformation

**Author's Note:** Ah, the last chapter! Many thanks to everyone who read, followed, and commented. I really appreciate your patience and hope this and chapter 6 were worth the wait. I'll probably stick to periodic one-shots for a while going forward, as I've now started work on my original novel! ^ . ^

In the meantime, please feel free to check out my other Harry Potter works, or my original short story at /hunterhealer  
Love ya'll. Happy reading!

* * *

Severus' visit after the March moon results in an unprecedented closeness between us. When he suggests meeting every Sunday in addition to the usual Wednesdays and Saturdays, I agree at once.

Our note paper is now used for more in-depth conversations. Emboldened by the more detached format of communication, I find myself sharing more than would have seemed possible just days prior. I write about my mom's absence and father's distance. He tells me about his life after his father left, which was difficult, but relatively peaceful.

We become closer as we discuss the trials of growing up poor, the debt and guilt we feel toward our single parents, and the tumultuous process of discovering our queerness.

I stop fighting the eagerness that comes over me before our shared lessons, and I no longer begrudge my heart quickening pleasantly before meeting him.

Our sex has slowed in pace and deepened in sensuality. We spend more time with foreplay now, and I almost enjoy it more than the coupling itself.

* * *

The weeks pass calmly, although I do notice that Severus' energy seems lacking, and unusual darkness encircles his eyes. I ask him if everything is okay, and he cites the coming exams as the cause of his stress.

"Not everyone is as gifted as you, Lupin, able to coast through classes and earn top marks based purely on luck and that damned Gryffindor charisma," he says with a smirk.

"Fuck off," I return, pulling him in for a kiss. "What kind of Slytherin are you anyway, if by now you haven't figured out some way to cheat your way to the top?"

After the April moon he comes to see me, bringing chocolate and welcomed talk of happenings throughout the school.

* * *

The rest of April goes by in a similar manner. As usual, Severus keeps tracking the moon dutifully, and writes me on the morning of Sunday, May 1 to ask if I feel well enough to visit, as the full is set for the following Tuesday. I agree to see him despite my fatigue.

Upon entering the Room of Requirement, I find the Slytherin pulling back the comforter and sheets from our bed.

He turns to embrace me, careful with his pressure on my aching body.

"C'mon," he says, wrapping his arm around my waist.

We lie together and he speaks to me until I fall asleep.

* * *

Thankfully I'm able to doze through the full moon morning, and not far past noon I wake to groggily check the note paper.

 _ **Remus?**_ It says.

 _Yes_

 _ **I hope**_

The writing fades. Then,

 _ **I hope you can remember tonight, and always—**_

 _ **I love you.**_

* * *

I don't write back. I can't. My mind's gone blank.

I put the paper back in the bedside drawer and curl up under the covers, pulse pounding in my ears.

 _He loves me._ I think repeatedly.

A part of me had clearly known this was coming, but seeing the angle and curve of the words in his familiar script still shakes me on a soul level.

The rest of the day drags on, and in a twisted way I feel grateful to my sickness for proving such an effective preoccupation from the Slytherin's note.

* * *

That night in the Shrieking Shack, I toss about on the sunken couch, somehow feeling extra sensitive to every pre-change sensation— the soreness penetrating my bones, the cramping muscles and shortness of breath.

My heartbeat feels even faster than normal, and suddenly vivid images assault my mind. I imagine my heart twitching off rhythm and stuttering to a stop— my naked, scarred body going limp, finally overcome by my curse.

A frantic thought cuts through the disorienting pain.

 _I'm dying— I'm dying and he doesn't know._

I lurch to my feet and stumble to the hidden compartment in the floor where my clothes and wand are stored. I tear the note paper and pen from my pant's pocket.

My trembling hand nearly renders my writing illegible.

 _I lov—_

A spasm jerks my hand off the paper.

 _I loveyou_

Intense relief ripples through me as I watch the words fade away.

"Good, good," I whisper in my breaking voice.

At this point, an invisible weight has settled on my chest, and I can hardly breathe.

My vision blurs as I fumble with the paper, crumpling it as I stow it away.

Without warning, my upper spine curves sharply forward at an obscene angle, pulling from my lungs a guttural scream.

My mind leaves me even before I collapse.

* * *

Two days later, Severus sits on the chair beside my bed in the infirmary.

"You surprised me, Tuesday night," he says.

"I surprised myself," I say simply.

The Slytherin smiles, leaning over to kiss my forehead and pull the collar of the robe higher on my neck. He eyes me carefully.

"I think I came by too early. You want to sleep, don't you?" He says.

"Yeah," I sigh. "Sorry."

"It's okay. You should rest."

He picks up the book lying on the bedside table.

"I'll just read a bit and then be on my way."

* * *

The following Saturday, as I enter the Room of Requirement, I immediately sense a somber, anxious feeling in the air. Severus stands staring into the fireplace, and his reaction to my appearance is delayed. He turns to me, looking more tired than I've ever seen him.

"What's wrong?" I say. "What happened?"

He shakes his head, flashing a small smile.

"Not a thing."

He continues before I can respond.

"Do you remember McGonagall saying, in class, that werewolves can't sense the humanity of an Animagus?" He says.

"Yeah?" I say lowly.

"Okay, good. Now close your eyes, count to three, and then open," he says.

I frown at him.

"What?"

"Just trust me. Please, Remus," he says earnestly, even a little breathlessly.

"Okay, okay," I say, working to relax my shoulders as I comply.

* * *

Moments later I see a silver lynx standing where Severus had been. I gasp and freeze in place, instinctually terrified of what looks like a wild animal just feet away from me.

The cat steps backwards and sits down slowly, helping me register that this is really Severus, and I'm safe. I ease slowly into the nearby armchair.

"Is just so you can—" I swallow around my constricting throat. "So you can be with me during the moon?"

The animal nods, causing the first slow, hot tears to fall.

"Severus," I whisper, and hold my hand out toward the lynx. "Come here. Let me see you."

The animal approaches carefully and leans his head into my palm the same way a house cat would. I run my hands through the warm dense fur, completely entranced.

"You're beautiful," I say.

The lynx responds by placing a huge and comfortingly heavy paw on my lap. He closes his eyes, luxuriating in the feel of my scratching his head and chin.

I slide off the chair unto my knees and embrace the large cat. I become a child again, a kid with a plush toy, and tears come faster.

"Oh god, I can't believe this. This is amazing. You're amazing, Severus. Thank you so much."

I breathe deeply to calm my breaths, pulling back to sit on my heels.

Once again, the lynx presses his massive face against me. His plush cheek rubs against the compression sleeve on my forearm, and suddenly I feel ridiculous for wearing it, at least with Severus.

"Hey, wait, hold on," I say. "Let me take this damn thing off."

The lynx backs off and sits down as I remove the tight fabric and throw it to the side.

I shift position to sit cross-legged on the floor. My arms rest in my lap, showcasing the stark difference between them— the left filled out with muscle, tan with blonde hair, and the right marbled with various tones and textures of scar tissue.

"The wolf was fixated on this arm, when I was younger. I have no idea why."

The lynx made a sort of anxious sound, and I sensed that Severus wanted to change back.

"No, wait. Don't change yet. It's easier like this."

The animal nodded.

"I was so young when everything happened. I've blocked out a lot of my memories, and I'm glad for that. I just know my arm scared me. I thought it was some sort of rash that would spread over my whole body, eat me alive."

I take a deep breath.

"Creatures— people like me, we usually don't live very long. Our bodies age fast. There's only so much we can take, and it only takes one wrong run-in with a wall to snap a neck."

"But now—" I choke on my tears, words failing me.

Then Severus is human again, embracing me tightly.

"You won't be alone anymore. You won't hurt yourself," he says fiercely. "Your condition will not kill you. I won't let it. I love you and I refuse to lose you to the wolf."

I feel as if I'm floating, but Severus' voice, deep and rich as always, holds me to the earth with a pull even greater than that of the moon.

Our eyes meet as we pull apart.

I never knew a gaze to hold such warmth and determination— and in that moment, I know at last what it means to be seen.


End file.
